


Of Blood and Alchemy

by Professor_Actuality



Series: Varian and the Seven Realms [1]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: (most) of this had a beta, Blood, Fantasy AU, Halloween, Halloween 2020, I forgot that Tangled canonically has werewolves and stuff in it, Inspired by Varian and the Seven Kingdoms - Kaitlyn Ritter & Anna Lencioni, M/M, Monster Hunter / Vampire AU, So here we are, Temporary Character Death, Ulla is even more off her rocker in this and I'm not sorry, Vampire AU, Why make Donella evil when Ulla is right there, but I was too far into the world-building by the time I realized this, vamparian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26173315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professor_Actuality/pseuds/Professor_Actuality
Summary: (chapter 3 is an update)When Hugo, a novice hunter, is sent to the backwaters of Corona, the last thing he expects to find is a young blood, barely past his turning, whose very existence defies everything Hugo has come to understand about monsters and humans alike.Inspired by YUKIMA_Ma's art over on twitter (link inside).
Relationships: Hugo/Varian (Disney: Varian and the Seven Kingdoms)
Series: Varian and the Seven Realms [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900693
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	1. A Grim Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by YUKIMA_ma's art over on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/YUKIMA_Ma/status/1263151158358536192)

By the time the trees part, he has nearly given up on finding the strange abode standing before him. It is as lost as he is, perhaps intentionally so.

The breeze that has followed him here has disappeared. The air is thick with the scent of with the scent of rust, and a milky fog wreathes the building in front of him. The full moon looks less like a lantern in the mist, and more like a yellowy blister sorely in need of lancing.

He had expected something more foreboding for all that he had heard. Maybe a crumbling castle, or an abandoned estate.

The cottage before him neither of those things. In the haze, he can see familiar shapes; a fence, a farm tool of some kind, and a humble garden lining the walkway that winds further into the fog. The bramble reeks of something putrid.

It is not bastion for a lost traveller. He knows the reputation of its mistress; in fact, he is depending on it.

She is mad, even amongst her own kind. Curious. Interested in those like him, and easily entertained. Knowledgeable in things that others have forgotten.

He hopes, dreads, that he is enough for a moment of her attention.

The still bundle in his arms urges him forward as he treads along the path. Whatever is behind him remains there. There is no reason to delay.

He is upon the threshold before he knows it. No light comes from inside, he realizes. Would she, does she sleep at this hour?

Just as soon, there are footsteps, and a halo of light appears around the door a moment later. A few more, and a familiar scene welcomes him.

She is nothing like the stories. Her long, ginger hair has been tied into a bun. Whiskers of stray hairs reach out, as if it had been tied just before he arrived. Her complexion is flush; in a silhouette, he mistakes her powder for something more sincere.

The reminder is enough for him.

Her glib catches him off guard: “You’re an awfully long way from home.” As if the hour wasn’t strange enough.

He chides himself. All this way, and he is already unsure of what to say.

“I am.” He says. The woman cocks her head gently to the side. Best to be straightforward, he thinks. “I seek your help. My son, he’s—”

“Dead.”

He is taken back by her bluntness. He supposes it’s only fair; why waste sentiment on something already decided?

“Yes, but not long” the last of cry had only been a short while ago “I was hoping—”

“For a miracle?”

“Yes.”

“And so instead of comforting your wife, you came here?”

She is wrong, and it stings, but he simply nods.

“So unfaithful. But I suppose I spoke to soon.” She tells him, gaze drifting down to what he has in his arms. There is a beat on his part, as her eyes remain transfixed onto what remains of his son. “I think there might be something still left to work with.”

She smiles, as if forgetting something important.

It unsettles him. But he is a soldier, a knight. He believes that he knows what things in this life are worth the sacrifice, and he refuses to let go of the dimming amount of hope he carries.

“Oh!” she says, startling him. “Where are my manners?” the smile recedes just a touch. It no longer reaches her eyes. “Come in, come in. There is much to do, and the night is short.”

His finds himself walking through the doorway, a guest in his own body for the instant he crosses the boundary.

“I am known as **Ulla**.” The name weighs in his mind.

“Quirin” he replies, answering a question unasked. Her smile brightens at that.

“So polite! But we don’t have time to waste.” She is cradling his son now. He looks down at his arms, helplessly empty.

When he looks up, she is already somewhere down the hall. A door in the floor lays open.

“Come on now! Don’t dawdle.” Her voice calls. As the words settle, he is given choice again. He is unneeded for whatever happens next.

But the only way is forward. And he will not let go of his son.


	2. The "Great" Vamparian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Un)fortunately for Hugo, nothing goes as expected.

As a bitingly cold wind swept under his cloak and through the gaps in his soft leather padding, Hugo wondered, not for the first time, why he had let himself be ordered out to another backwater town so quickly after leaving the last one. In the distance, a howl creaked through the gusts of snow.

Old Corona, moored to its benighted notions of things that go bump in the night, had begrudgingly welcomed the hunter’s presence to the sleepy hamlet. His work was taken as a necessary precaution against the more dire blights that plagued the common folk. To many, the practice was too close a reminder of the things they were almost forbidden to speak of. Their gratitude was bitterly won, and only doled out in the reluctant toss of a light coin pouch.

In their defense, they had offered up wolf’s bane, nightshade, and as a token of faith to the current regime, garlic against whatever it was that lurked around the edges of their town. Not one could, or at least would, tell him what they suspected might be out there. Judging by how none seemed to be able to look him in the eye, it was something that had bothered them for some time, and they were only just now, by circumstance of him being there on another matter, choosing to do something about the problem.

On his mentor’s orders, he had come chasing the whisper of a night creature that had not been sighted in years, one Donella was keenly interested in—Ulla. Word was that the betrayer had been in the area, and unlike other misguided hints on her whereabouts, there had been a purpose to her being here. Something had transpired during her brief appearance, to which the locals played suspiciously ignorant of. 

Another time, Hugo would let them keep their secrets and disinter them later. He knew better than to waste his efforts on such reluctant hosts.

So Hugo had taken his time, skulked around until someone had let slip the right morsel.

Their leader, widowed some years ago, had mysteriously vanished around the time of Ulla’s appearance. There was the suggestion that he had been survived by his son, in unknown condition. They had hardly seen either hide or hair of the boy. Always sickly, rarely venturing outside. The townsfolk hadn’t mustered up the courage to check.

Which may have been for the best; the general complaining he had listened through during his stay was fairly telling. Whatever her reasons, Ulla had left behind one of her clan members to work away at the area’s food supply. A punishment, from the perspective of an ever-ravenous predator. The boy wouldn’t have survived by all measures.

In another circumstance, Hugo would have argued the worth of pursuing such a pathetic creature. In all the time it had been in the area, only one or two children had gone missing, and the blame more likely laid with common mishaps than something more malicious. Vampires were some of the more insidious pests, but outside of the heart of their territory, they were more reasonable than some of their brethren. It was rare that one would go on a rampage; overfeeding on prey that renewed itself at the pace of a turning wasn’t wise for a nigh immortal creature.

But they were also the least valuable hunt. While undead, their viscera remained largely human-like and offered little in the way of unique extracts. And the damn things disintegrated into dust when slain. Gathering anything from their entrails had to be done while the creature was still _alive,_ an exercise that Hugo did not relish.

Donella, however, would have his head if he let a night creature, however pitiful, roam freely.

With a grim nod, Hugo turned his attention back to dredging his way through the unplowed snow. The howling from earlier reverberated more clearly—and it was joined by the sound of claws grating against stone.

As something resembling a building began to peak over the horizon, Hugo ran his hand over his arsenal. A set of concoctions, crafted from common herbs and curated creature portions, sat in their familiar arrangement. He moved the vampire oil from his belt to the hidden compartment on his gauntlet. A branch, torn from a decaying tree and sharpened some ways back, was hooked beside the leather sheath attached to his hip. The weight of the blade it held served as both a comfort, and a reminder.

* * *

The den as laid out before him, was a hovel of an established lair if Hugo had ever set his eyes on one. The single-story building held none of the loftier towers that Hugo had come to associate with the long-lived creatures. It followed the same simple stonework and wood pattern of the village. The glasswork had long fractured, the cracks spreading like cobwebs as the frost seeped in.

He supposed the state of the grounds was only fair; the creature hadn't been here long, in the grander scheme of things. If the state of the village was anything to go by, the mayor's estate likely hadn't provided much to build upon. The creature seemed to have put its efforts toward its decor.

The area surrounding it was littered with a choir of crude instruments. Logs with hollowed-out holes that whistled with the wind, branches that scraped against carefully placed stonework, and what remained of a field plow was left to creak as the natural elements battered against it. There was a reddish brown substance on some of the ornaments that might have looked like blood to an eye less familiar with it.

The clamour, while at a distance might have invoked fear, was a strange mimicry of the infernal creatures of common nightmare. Hugo chuckled to himself at the sight of the makeshift ensemble as he crossed the grounds.

A quick lap of the structure revealed no obvious traps in the general disrepair. There was a cellar entrance that had been bolted shut, and upon being pried open, has been filled in with some sort of blended stonework that Hugo wasn't familiar with. He stopped a moment to study it briefly, wondering what the make-up of the compound was before shaking himself of the curiosity. Most windows had been boarded up, and the ones that weren't were too small for Hugo's frame. He could see weakness in the motor lining the walls, but nothing he could take advantage of without compromising the rest of the building. He still needed to investigate what evidence was left of Ulla's visit.

As he neared the entrance, the scorch marks of an unfamiliar sigil flared across the aging wood of the door. A circle, interrupted by a set of three scratch marks near the bottom.

_Rudimentary. So, either this is old magick, or a shoddy ward. But the real question is whether this intended to seal something inside or to keep unwanted guests out._

His presence had summoned it forth, but it didn’t crackle or burn as he let a gloved hand hover over the symbol. Tentatively, he let his hand settle on the door and slowly dragged it across. Smoke trickled over his fingers. Pulling his hand back, there was a faint imprint of the mark on his palm. It vanished as a gust of wind swept around him.

_A warning, then._

Hugo took one more inventory of his supplies. He pulled the iron blade out of its holder, gripping it firmly, and pushed open the door with his shoulder. It groaned on its hinges, leaning towards the floor as it slowly swung open.

The inside faired little better than the grounds surrounding it. Snow piled in small mounds where the roof had collapsed. A fireplace breathed puffs of cool air as winter wind found its way down the chimney. A thin layer of dust coating the parts of the room undisturbed by the outside.

Carefully, Hugo stepped forward, wary of what might lay underneath the floorboards. He knew better than to trust appearances at first glance. It was simple to make deadly traps unassuming when you had centuries to perfect it.

To his surprise, the floor remained steady underneath him as he moved through the room. The woodwork leaned in places where a person might tread frequently, but no more.

Stranger still was the dull absence that enveloped Hugo as soon as he had crossed the boundary, Furniture and decorations, pushed to the far ends of the room as if by storm, hung suspended at the end of their arcs, as the pull of the earth simply let them be, forgotten, hovering moments away from the floor. Not even the portrait that rested above the hearth had managed to retain its warmth. It sat as a foggy impression of life, seeped of its colour and definition. It almost quivered under Hugo's gaze, as if it shied away from scrutiny.

Turning his arm over, Hugo could see that the hue of his person had also dimmed somewhat. Best not to linger then.

With little other recourse, Hugo turned to the trap door in the middle of the floor. It was made of a heavier wood, reinforced with iron plates placed across its width. Despite its apparent weight, Hugo opened it with ease. He had at least expected it to be locked...

A staircase led down some ways from the opening. The path was lit by bright embers inside shaped glasswork, set in place of torches. Upon closer inspection, the light emanating from them did not flicker like fire. It thrummed with a constant whine, coloured like...white stormlight? But why waste such rare, natural energy on illumination?

Odd as it was, the light cast seemed harmless, so Hugo pressed onward.

The flooring here had been reworked more recently than the rest of the house. Hugo gingerly pressed his boot down on the next step. A small click, and Hugo darted backward narrowly avoiding a slew of arrows. Their shoddy craftsmanship was made obvious as they splintered upon the opposing wall.

... _a classic, if a bit mundane._

He pulled his coin pouch out, throwing it a few steps ahead. It pressed down soundly on another trap. There was another click as stonework ground against itself behind the wall. A few more moments, and the noise sputtered to a halt, followed by silence.

_A gas?_

Hugo softened his breathing, bringing his hand over his mouth and waited. There was no scent, save for the stale air. Focusing, Hugo did his best to follow the dust that had been disturbed by his movement. It quickly drifted back into its residual motion as if nothing had happened.

Releasing his face Hugo continued onward, following the same pattern until one mechanism startled him in its absurdity.

The wall beside him spit out a strange purple ooze that landed wetly on the other wall. It left a slimy trail as it slid benignly down to the ground.

Hugo cautiously poked the substance with a longer piece of one of the broken arrows. It easily pressed into the membrane with a moist belch but stayed firmly lodged once settled.

Between the strange assortment outside and the half-hearted attempt at trapping, Hugo would almost swear that some of the locals were fucking with him, were it not for the deadened scene that had greeted him upstairs.

The shrill sound of delicate glass shattering interrupted his thoughts.

The ooze had been the last snare. Only a barred oak door stood between him and the source of the sound. A dull light pulsed around the frame as smoke crawled out around the door.

_Always a flair for thespian dramatics. No surprises then._

A pause, and then a few more, and the door opened of its own accord. A billow of smoke swept over him.

_It appears that I have been summoned. What a gracious host._

“Beware human!” a voice, with false depth called out. “For you have wandered into the lair of the great Vamparian!”

_Vamp…vamparian—_

“Surely you don’t, mean, for that name, to be intimidating?” Hugo managed, barely suppressing a cough trembling in his rib cage. He could barely breathe, or see in the low light, for the smoke filling the room. Only the cloak pulled over his mouth hoarded room for his breath.

“I—silence human! If you, um, value your life, you will turn back now!” The creature, the _Vamparian,_ sputtered. It’s confidence already shaken, and only with one jab on Hugo’s part. Perhaps he could save himself from the customary monologuing.

“Has anyone else just _wandered_ through a dozen traps? I didn’t see any bones on the way down.” Press the advantage, however slight. He would locate that target by sound, if not by sight.

“…well normally no one gets this far—I mean—" the voice called back, unmoved from its position. The hunter wandered closer.

“Tell me, oh great _Vamparian,_ was this your first, or second take?” Hugo jeered. Surely the creature wouldn’t be so naïve as to stay still in such a small space?

Teeth clicked. A hiss teased its way past a clenched jaw. “Argh, n-nevermind! We’ll just do this the—” it said. And there Hugo was.

“—old fashioned way? Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Hugo closed the distance between him and the shadow in the mists. “Got you,” Hugo said smugly, raising his blade to where he estimated the creature’s neck was. The fumbling, while endearing, could only last for so long.

“That blade is, uh, awfully sharp—" it replied. The form before him collapsed before Hugo could say a word. The reach of Hugo’s forward thrust sunk into foggy smoke.

He blinked in the haze, “That’s a new one.” _I’ll have to make a note of that._ “But you can’t stay like that forever,” Hugo said with confidence more assumed than felt. No reply this time.

It had disappeared right in front of him, but there was no way for it to dissipate into nothing. Even vampires vanquished into ash. Smoke watered his eyes as he peered around.

Squinting, shapes smeared across his sight. The fog remained ever-present, but a new shade of grey appeared, darkening the cloud. It moved preternaturally against the motion of the air in the room.

Hugo wasted not a moment more and swung through it.

Between breaths, the mist condensed, curving around the blade’s arc. “Wait!” it cried, before Hugo made another slicing motion. The creature scattered in a rolling wave, just missing his blade.

Another moment, and “—you—”, it materialized to the right. Hugo made to bisect it clean in half.

On the left, “—smell—”

In front now, “—like—”

Closer, “—sulphur!” with the final word, it become corporeal right against him, falling past his outstretched blade. Startled, his attention was pulled down to the deadly being almost caught in his embrace. Dark hair flopped down onto a pale, freckled face, nose scrunched up in vague disgust, bright red irises glinting with—

…curiosity? The thing continued, “and there’s only one reason why anyone would smell like that. _Alchemy!_ But I thought—”

Hugo could feel himself slipping, a numbness in the divots between his thoughts as he was drawn downward. An ingrained warning rose under the glamour: _Remember why you came._

“You _do_ realize why I’m here, right?” Hugo asked, shaking the himself back to focus. In his hand, he twisted the sword inward, toward the back of the thing caught against him.

“To horribly maim, and then kill me?” the creature offered nervously, as if unsure of itself. It was not possessed of any of their arrogance Hugo had come to expect of creatures would live lifetimes beyond him, sustained through stolen vitality. An instant, a geist in the wind, gracing the room with its tenuous, almost weightless presence.

How fresh was this young blood? Hugo hesitated.

“Oh, what gave it away?”

“I—look! See?” it began, pulling out the inside of his check—to expose its fangs clearly—“I can’t bite you.” Incisors, nested on either side of set of buck front teeth. They were flat, not sharp. “So…would you maybe reconsider? Please?” It finished, quivering.

“You _sawed off your own teeth_?!” Hugo nearly yelled. The vampire bristled, almost stepping back into the tip of Hugo’s blade, still extended.

“Um, yes? So can we please just talk about this _rationally_ —”

“Self mutilation or not,” Hugo interrupted, readying himself again. “A vampire is simply too much of a risk to let live. You just can’t help yourselves, one way or another.” A grisly image flashed across his vision.

“If you would just listen!” It insisted, ducking out from under Hugo’s reach. “The village sent you right? So you know that, in all this time, I have not _once_ tried to hurt them. Or anyone for that matter.” The creature stepped away, back pressing into the wooden boards of a blocked window. Its eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape.

“If you’re that torn up over the vampire thing,” Hugo said, stepping towards the nearly cornered night creature, its eyes centeSring on him again, “why not go for a stroll in the sun?”

Hugo locked his gaze near the creature, this time on a spot on the wood above the creature’s head.

“I considered that.” it said softly, remaining transfixed on him. “It was tolerable.” It raised an arm, a shadow of claw outstretched, and reached up behind it.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

The boards were yanked from their nails, the creature throwing what little weight it had into the motion as it crashed against the floor. Light, bright and painful, rushed in. Hugo flinched.

On instinct Hugo retreated back. Even a moment's blindness held too much risk. It was a vulnerability, his reliance on a sense so easily deceived. Donella never failed to remind him.

Blinking away tears, Hugo spared a bleary glance at his opponent.

A faded silhouette shivered as it rose from the floor. Its cloak unclapsed as it stood, exposing a pale neckline, skin pulled taut over an impossibly small frame. Almost hollow in the misty brilliance of the light fading into the smoke around the creature.

"You should be _burning._ "

"Believe me, this is still _really_ uncomfortable, burning or not." It replied evenly.

Both stayed where they were, one of them breathing at a hare's pace.

"What the fuck are you supposed to be then?"

"Still a vampire as far as you're concerned hunter." The creature took a small step forward. Hugo kept away, maintaining the small gap between them.

It continued, "so now that we’re taking a break from trying to kill me, perhaps, um, talk?"

"Oh, like I haven't heard that one before." Hugo scoffed. They wanted to be, could be, reasoned with when the tides turned, as if to make you forget that time was immaterial to them. As if mortality could be negotiated.

It continued to slowly make its way toward him, the gap between them closing ever so slightly, until it stopped a couple paces away from him.

"Fine then, hunter. Go ahead. Knock me down." It said as it let it's arms fall to their sides, palms out. An uneasy pretense of being unarmed.

Hugo readied his blade again, tapping it against the compartment on his arm. The oil beaded on the edge of the blade. It wouldn't be enough to take it down, but it would slow its regeneration long enough for Hugo to pry out the answers he needed.

"But you came through that liminal space above, and you will be trapped just have we have been."

_We? Trapped?_

The hunters gaze fell to the creature's face again. Its eyes flitted to something behind him, and then back again.

"And you will never know why m--Ulla, or the betrayer or whatever you're calling her, was here." The creature bit on its lower lip, buck teeth curling over the darkened flesh. It was...cute, how it pulled on its soft features. Too soft, for something that was supposed to hold him in disdain.

 _Focus, Hugo_.

Surely it knew that this would only maim it. So why pretend otherwise?

"That's why you're here isn't it? You would have come sooner if this was just about me."

"Yes." He admitted. He could give it that much, at least.

"Good." It said. The relief was palpable as its shoulders fell.

But Hugo hadn't agreed to a truce yet.

"Because while direct contact with sunlight might not kill me…" anticipation gone, it was swaying now on its feet. "It is really draining. Also, I've never misted that many times in a row or…" it took an uneasy step towards him, attempting to reel back when he realized that Hugo wasn't dropping his guard. "...ever, really." It finished, swallowing whatever else it had to say about the discovery.

Hugo continued to stare the creature down. This wasn't a ploy he was familiar with. But he could play the part if he needed to.

He cocked a half-smile as he lowered his weapon. "I'll be the first to say that it surprised me too."

The hunter’s eyes were adapting well to the now illuminated room. The smoke was not as thick as he had surmised. He could see the simple masonry lining the walls and the rotted pine boards covering the remaining windows. A crackle, followed by a hiss behind him captured his attention. He turned sharply, hearing the vampire in front of him suck in a hasty breath as he did so.

Strewn across several tables was an assortment of beakers, connected by tubing of a material he didn’t recognize. An amber liquid bubbled and popped, its gas collected in the upper rim of its container. It fed into a series of pipes and bottles, each more convoluted than the last, eventually accumulating in a cylindrical flask filled with deep gold fluid. There was a faint, earthy scent of resin. It prickled the back of his nose.

Bookshelves lined the walls around the tables. Most of it was indistinct, but some words stuck out; _alchemy, transmutation, compounds and concoctions…_

He turned back the creature facing him.

“You entertain yourself with…” Hugo began.

“Alchemy!” the creature said brightly, before withdrawing the smile that was just beginning to form.

“Alchemy,” Hugo echoed. He was wasting time, previous daylight, dawdling over a chemistry set. The mood could shift at any moment if he wasn’t careful.

The set-up was homemade, sections being added as needed. An orange substrate crusted some of the connecting valves and stoppers. The liquid filling the vials wasn’t one he recognized. What were they hoping to gather, by harvesting the gas percolating off the boiling liquid?

“I see.” The hunter stated. He chewed over his next thought. “And what were you hoping to accomplish?”

“Um,” the creature said, glancing between Hugo and the glassware. It was holding its other arm, rubbing its wrist raw.

“You’re wanting the condensation from that amber liquid?”

“Oh, yes!” it said. Absently it let go of its arm, gesturing with a gradual enthusiasm as it spoke. “The liquid is of my own design. I was trying to backwards develop a solution to stop something from rotting.”

_Stopping rot…_

“Backwards?” _From what?_

“I mean, it started as just trying figure out—” it interrupted itself, eyes flitting over to something Hugo couldn’t see, before closing its mouth tightly.

After a moment, it allowed itself to continue again. “We can preserve some foods, but I wanted to apply it to, uh, other things. Preferably in a way that doesn’t compromise the composition of whatever is being encased. For safety.”

Hugo could only think of a handful of things a vampire might want to preserve…but this was more elaborate, and much less magick based, than anything he had heard of.

None of this explained why it didn’t burn up in the light, or why Ulla had come. And the only answer to those questions stood in front of him, a strange bundle of contradictions. A vampire that didn’t fight back, at least not earnestly. One that seemed more interested in the laboratory around them than taking advantage of Hugo’s momentary distraction, despite claiming to have been trapped for some time. One that didn’t burn in the harsh light of day.

With its back still to the open window, Hugo could see another shiver run through the creature. In the dark, it’s shape had seemed more intimidating—but in the light, their skin was thin, barely disguising the musculature underneath. Veins ran down the collar bone, alternating shades of blue. It was frail—closer to a corpse than a well-fed vampire.

If he knocked it down, how long would it take to regenerate? Would it recover? Or would it be snuffed out for good, a question, a possibility lost to the void?

“This would take a bit to explain…” It said softly, breaking his thoughts. “Are you still trying to kill me then?”

* * *

The remaining smoke dissipated quickly, escaping in fits as they briefly opened and closed each window. They worked from opposite sides of the room; the bounds of their truce not entirely defined.

Varian looked over his shoulder as he shuttered the last window on his side of the room. Unsurprisingly, the hunter—for he still hadn’t offered a name—was already eying the apparatus again. Varian had expected his interest in it to be a passing curiosity. But he had asked about it, and from a brief look, recognized some of what Varian was doing. And the hunter was smart enough not to touch any of it, although he was leaning in rather close to one of the bottles.

As he leaned in to inspect it further, Varian could see a brief flash of metal at the hunter’s side. An uncomfortable reminder. A small part of him wished the bottle would explode in the hunter’s face, but that would leave him in the same situation as before.

Seemingly satisfied with his survey, the hunter straightened himself.

“Alright then Toothless, I’m curious.”

_Toothless?_

“It’s Varian actually.”

“You don’t burn in sunlight, you practice alchemy, you say that you’re trapped in here, and you clearly haven’t been at this vampire thing very long, if that introduction was any indication.” The hunter said, ignoring his correction. Varian barely blinked at it. He was used to pointed questioning, and that straightforward answers were easiest.

“Pick a question, and I’ll start there.”

“Answer them in order then.”

Varian raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Fine. In order then: I don’t _entirely_ understand the sunlight thing. It still kind of hurts, and I can’t do a whole lot while exposed.” _And that’s as much as you need to know._ “I have a lot of time on my hands, and studying is a good past time.

“It’s more than just uncommon—it’s almost unheard of. I’m not sure how much you got out in your time, but it’s not the kind of thing that’s really appreciated by most. Corona keeps a pretty tight lock on it, outside of their archives.”

“A shame, really.”

“Many wouldn’t agree with you. But I would.”

“Do you have a name?” Varian asked. The hunter looked up at that. “I mean, I kind of just keep referring to you as ‘hunter’ in my head, and it’s a bit awkward.”

“Hugo.” He offered after a pause. “And the other questions?”

This was the harder part. Varian was still piecing together those answers for himself. There were the letters, penned by Ulla he had realized, each more impatient than the last as he read through them chronologically. Asking, and then demanding to see him, until the letters abruptly ended, the last one dated a month before she had arrived. Then there was the journal he had found amongst his father’s things. Like Quirin, it was scant on the details, and more frustratingly, some of the pages had been torn out.

His father keeping things from him wasn’t new, but it was the first time Varian had to figure it out by himself. In a darker corner behind the hunter—Hugo—his father still laid comatose under a thick wool blanket. Hugo still hadn’t noticed the body, and Varian was reluctant to draw his attention to it.

Gathering up the letters piled beside him, Varian made his way over the table Hugo was leaning over.

“I’ve been trapped here since Ulla arrived. My father,” Varian swallowed, eyeing the body in the corner briefly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Managed to banish her from the house, but in the process left me stuck here.”

“Impressive, but dangerous, messing with that kind of magick.” Hugo said, trying to follow where Varian’s gaze had been. “Foolish too.”

That irked him. His father was far from foolhardy and was the only reason either of them were alive. Varian dropped the letters onto the table between them. Hugo turned back when one of them brushed against his hand.

“It killed him then right?” Hugo said. Varian almost blanched, before he realized the opportunity he had been given. He simply nodded, doing his best to look sorrowful.

“So why is his body on the floor behind me, untouched by the black rot?”

Varian nearly choked.

“I should probably remind you that there is little point in trying to hide things from me.”

“I realize that, I just—look, you came here to _kill me,_ and somehow I didn’t think that you would be very _happy_ with the man whose been harbouring me.”

For all of Varian’s concern, Hugo seemed rather nonplussed as he tapped his fingers along the table. “No, but it’s not unheard of. Family is always reluctant to give up their loved ones. Never ends happily, in my experience.”

“I can imagine.”

“Better comatose than dead though.” Hugo finished drumming his fingers. “But that doesn’t explain _you_ though. Old Corona knows you exist, but not what you are, nor do they care enough to come looking after you, even with your ‘ _father’_ missing.”

Varian hadn’t expected them to, but it still stung, especially as the weeks alone had dragged on. Hugo pulled away from the bubbling apparatus sitting between them.

“Which means he’s been hiding you for almost as long as he’s been here.” He continued, moving around the table. Varian took a step back, but Hugo moved quicker than he expected. “So what I’m wondering is,” the distance between them was shrinking faster than he’d like as Varian continue to move backwards. “Why pretend?”

“Sorry?” Varian said as Hugo closed the remaining gap.

“He’s not a vampire, and even if he was, your kind doesn’t reproduce. Your numbers are limited, and that’s why you’re dying out. You don’t age or grow. You’re not supposed to be here.”

_And that’s the mystery—or at least it was._

“Everything you just said is technically correct.”

“Of course it is.” Hugo scoffed.

“And until this happened, I didn’t have an answer either. But I can assure you that I am my father’s son, and these letters prove it.” Varian explained as he quickly grabbed one of the papers off the desk pulling it up between them. Hugo narrowed his eyes as he looked between it and the rest.

“Save me some time then.”

“Ulla had been sending my father letters, asking over and over to see me. She acknowledges me as his son. I was stillborn, but more importantly she wants something _back_ from me.” 

“So Ulla, somehow, turned you as a babe, and you just… _grew_ into this?” Hugo asked.

“Yes.”

“ _Bullshit.”_

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“Not yet.” Hugo said. “But I’ll admit,” the hunter continued as he reached for Varian’s hair “the red hair stripe is an inspired touch. Did you do that yourself?”

Varian batted his hand away, and immediately regretted it seeing the irritation flash across Hugo’s face. In a moment is was replaced by a small smile, more unnerving than anger that had been there a moment before.

“No, it’s always been like that. And you don’t have to touch it!” Varian snapped. He is not used to having someone, anyone, this close. He is brittle, likely to collapse under the weight of Hugo’s gaze if he presses in any closer. 

“Well regardless, Ulla clearly wants you for whatever reason, which means _I_ have an idea.” With that, Hugo turns away without another word to make his way back towards the entrance. He stops by a satchel he left by the entrance in the smoke. Varian watches as Hugo leans down to shuffle through some of the contents. The hunter is facing him, but as Hugo trades something from his gauntlet back into the bag, Varian still can’t quite make out what he the hunter is looking for.

“Are you going to tell me what this idea is or am I just going to have to find out on my own?”

“The latter.” Hugo hums.

“Figures.” Varian says, followed by a small sigh. The breath is unnecessary, but he has learned that the pretense is sometimes more important than his own comfort. It rattles in his chest like a swarm of flies, batting at every angle until he lets them go.

“In the meantime, I think it’s time you and I got out of here. If I broke the seal on this place, then it won’t be long until someone notices.” Hugo has finished rifling through the contents. Satisfied, he loops the bag back over his shoulder and pushes the basement door open.

The stormlight illuminating the staircase is a stark compared to the natural light they let into the laboratory. It is not welcoming, and it reminds him why he rarely leaves.

Hugo raises an eyebrow at him. “As interesting as these experiments are,” he says gesturing the apparatuses around the room. “They’re not going to help your father.”

Varian looks around, remembering that he should be getting ready to leave. There are the books lining the shelves against the wall, the apparatuses that he had left to their own devices, some clothes tucked into storage. A few other things come to mind, and he notes everything in sequence, adding it to a list.

None of it matters. He cannot take most of it with him.

His father still lies in the corner, unmoving. There is a faint, but steady pulse, and indicator of life that only he can hear. It isn’t enough to quell the knot tightening inside his chest, but it has been weeks since the incident. He would have passed by now if it was a normal coma.

Each moment Varian wavers is likely a point against him, he realizes, as he feels the heat of Hugo’s watchful gaze on him.

The amber solution that bubbles off to the side will have to be left unfinished. Varian isn’t sure if it is the right one, and he could easily spend lifetimes trying to perfect it.

Instead he pulls out a worn satchel under the table near his father. It is a patchwork, mended many times over, and Varian wonders how much remains of the original material. Some of his father’s things kick around the bottom; some food, notes on the goings on of Old Corona. He motions to empty it, making sure his movements are transparent to the hunter watching him. His father’s remaining items spill across the floor.

_The rats at least will have something to eat._

Varian gathers some of his remaining alchemical bombs and piles them into the bag along with a book he wanted to finish. He throws in some parchment and ink with a handful of other things that he is not willing to part from.

Hugo only offers a yawn during the process.

Varian finishes gathering his bundle as he stands back up. His things barely fill half the bag, but the weight at least makes it easy for him to carry.

Hugo leans against the doorframe, elbow digging into the woodwork as his arm drapes across the opening. The pose is an easy one, but his other hand is steady on the hilt of his blade as Varian approaches.

“But first, we need to set some ground rules.” Hugo says, stepping in the doorway just as Varian nears it. Hugo smiles down at him, and Varian finally notices that Hugo stands nearly a head taller than him. It is not meant to reassure; the knot in his chest squeezes his innards.

_I’m the bait._

It does not settle with him, and Hugo seems to study him now with some amusement.

The seal his father had left would not last forever, but the inevitable waning of its magick was something Varian had resigned to. Trapped and alone in his home, he would run out of alchemical supplies, books, or anything to entertain himself eventually. Once the boredom set in, unbroken by sleep, he would find himself finally venturing out, and Ulla would be waiting, somewhere.

Much like now, there isn’t a choice, so much as there is no better option.

Hugo is granting him a way out. It is sooner than Varian would like, for he won’t let himself be too hopeful, but it holds more possibility than staving off his certain end. Hugo has fought monsters before, and Varian would like to believe that will make a difference.

* * *

To their mutual surprise, the strange silence of the scene upstairs has been broken, objects left to fall where they may given their freedom. As Hugo cracks open the trap door, he swears that there is a hint of colour making its way back into the house on the edges of his vision.

Amongst dusty, half eaten sheets, they manage to find an intact cloak for Varian. The hood of it falls over his eyes and the rest gathers around his boots. Varian feels awkward; Hugo's response is to tug the fabric back down.

The storm has calmed when the pair cross the front threshold. A thick blanket of snow covers the landscape, indifferent to the shape of whatever lies beneath. Hugo can't even see the faintest imprint of his tracks from earlier.

Behind him, Varian stalls a moment in the doorway. Hugo looks back over his shoulder

“You’re not getting cold feet on me now, are you?” he says..

“Of course not!”

“Then _walk._ You might have all the time in the world, but I for one want to be out of this miserable excuse for a town before I forget what it’s like to be warm.”

With that, Hugo turns back to pushing through the snow.

This is not the first time that Varian has left the house, but it is the first time he has been allowed to in daylight, even waning, for as long as he can remember. He can tolerate sunlight; its oppression is not so simple as to harm him by direct contact. That has always confused him; but it still feels like a risk, even with the protection of an oversized cloak. 

“And don’t worry. There’s no way I’m dragging you through Old Corona.” Hugo adds, already halfway to the front fence.

Varian does not breath, but it is a relief to know that he does not have to face the people of a town that never welcomed him. They would be glad to know he was leaving. He cannot blame them; he doesn’t trust himself either.

He is through the front door in a second. The retreating sunlight bears down on him, but it is milder than he imagined. Varian almost hops through the trail that Hugo has made in the snow. When he catches up at the edge of the property, the hunter simply gives him an easy smile. For once, Varian is glad that the course of the blood in him ebbs agonizingly slowly. It has been longer than he would like to admit since anyone has smiled at him.

All at once, Varian is struck by the sound of a beating pulse. It has been months since he has heard something stubbornly _alive,_ and not catatonic. He feels a vacancy that he has been neglecting, a reminder that his animation depends on borrowed vim.

“I can hear it. Your, uh—” He offers. Varian hears, but does not see the abrasion of a blade moving across leather. “I mean it’s fine! It’s just louder than what I’m used to. I think it’s the cold…” he adds meekly.

“’Don’t make me gag you. You don’t need incisors to draw blood.”

Varian bites back a hiss. It comes through more like a weak whimper. Momentary confusion crosses Hugo’s face, before it is quickly waved away under amusement.

“How about instead I give you a distraction?” Hugo says. Varian watches as Hugo rummages through his bag, searching through several layers of items, including one concealed compartment, before pulling out a weathered tome. Varian sees the title before Hugo says a word: _A Practical Guide to Alchemy: Volume 1._

“Oh! I’ve never been able to get a hold of an edition of this!” Varian says, thankful for the distraction as he pulls the book out of Hugo’s hand. Hugo tenses as Varian grabs the volume, but he lets it go without protest.

At the back of his mind, Varian can still hear the glow of the capillaries under Hugo’s skin. But it is quieter, sitting behind thoughts of materials and formulae. He does not see the exasperated, but almost fond expression that Hugo gives him.

* * *

In hindsight, he really should have expected her sooner. The frantic readiness with which she had descended belied her impatience. They had scarcely made it to the safehouse when he heard the first hiss.

Hugo had expected to waste more time on taunts and negotiation. Find somewhere to put Varian, and let Ulla listen to herself speak while he studied her approach.

Instead, she had appeared out of a flurry of snow, marching unabated by the elements battering them as she closed the distance between them and the house. The terms were simple: leave Varian to whatever fate might come or die trying stop her. It was time to make amends for her foolishness nearly two decades past.

She had made a mistake before, in attempting to get to Varian while ignoring his protective father.

The snow between them erupted into a cloud of white silt, scratching against open skin as it tried to burrow into the hunter’s eyes. He brought up an arm to shield himself, and nails tore into it past braided leather.

Varian found them a moment later, fear plastered across his face. Then he had made the mistake of meeting Ulla’s stare. Two pairs of crimson eyes locked in each other’s gazes, both alight with volition, willing the other to stand down. Varian offered sympathy. Hugo feared the worst. Her resolve faltered and the scales from her heart fell away for a moment.

_“You still remember your dream, don’t you?”_

Varian’s concentration began to fray. The gleam he held flickered as the pupils of his eyes expanded into an empty stare.

Hugo made his decision, pulling Varian’s dead weight out of the way and throwing him aside with as much force as he could muster. It was all the time she needed.

Her perfect, alabaster skin ran crimson with rivulets of his blood as she skinned his remaining protections off him. He fumbled for his weapon, any weapon, but her movements thrashed with unadulterated rage, slashing at the idea of something being in her _way_. Between the cuts he wondered why she simply didn’t go in for the pulse running down his neck. 

Fighting Varian alone had almost made him think that he was capable of fending off a fully-fledged vampire by himself. As she exposed pink, festering muscle lined with thin white threads, his remaining thoughts withered under the _burn_ radiating across his flesh. Red vapor taints the snow gusting around them.

She pulls back her arm, distended and twisted, her hand, her _claw,_ broken and folded into a point, ready to puncture through what little meat remained—

—and misses as something yanks him back into the house.

In her frenzy, Ulla had nearly pressed him into the front step, and Varian had recovered enough to seize the opportunity, pulling Hugo out of harm’s way.

Hugo dragged his limp forearm across the inside of the door, marking it with dribbles of blood and interstitial gore in a shape resembling a ward. It nothing like the one that had sheltered Varian inside his home. The only merit of this one was that it came from _him,_ and would hold its potency so long as the flesh it was torn from remained alive. It would keep Ulla out for maybe a moment, long enough to let him bleed out on the floor a bit at least. He had snuck out from under tighter circumstances—surely that guile would favour him now.

 _But what good was that when the thing you’re running from can fucking **turn to mist.**_ More quietly he wondered whose idea it had been to let anything be able to do that.

The darkening sky through the window offered no reply as he stared down a rising moon. The moon looked less like a floating lantern, and more like a yellowy blister sorely in need of lancing. It blurred across his vision as a wave of pain rushed over him.

Varian had remained almost untouched. Small gashes dotted his arms where he had fended off some of her blows, before being knocked aside. The wounds leaked a white puss that gleamed in the twilight, so slowly that Hugo wouldn’t have noticed if hadn’t set all his remaining attention on it to avoid the numbness setting in from the furthest ends of his limbs.

Distantly he realized Varian was squeezing his hand, as if willing him to hold on just a bit longer. Hugo is sluggishly aware of the amount blood likely soaking through his clothes, and more gradually wondered by what miracle Varian was restraining himself. Slowly, Hugo dragged his eyes away from the pale liquid leaking from Varian’s injuries.

Varian had almost stilled completely, forgoing the pretense of normal breathing.

“Leave me.” Hugo breathes between hurtful pangs. He is dead weight, and Varian has only been sustaining himself on a thin diet of animal blood for longer than Hugo has known him.

There is another thought, duller than the last: he doesn’t want Varian to see him like this.

There is an admittance he doesn’t want to make. That he might care what Varian, a vampire of all things, might feel. He should know better, but Varian kindles with something he hasn’t seen anywhere else. Curiosity that burns softly, tempered, but untainted by the cynicism Hugo has embraced. Varian has no right to be so keen, so desperate to be something other than himself, standing on the precipice of the void. He faces, and refuses, the crush of endless time, moments like grains lost in the sand, innumerable and utterly meaningless. The hours, the days, the years are filled with study, with alchemy, something the world has almost forgotten.

Most damning of all, is the regret; something that is entirely absent amongst Varian’s brethren. Varian was never meant to be this kind of creature, the heart, the haunted color nor the features.

“I’m no good to you.” Hugo says, instead of everything else.

“I don’t _care._ ” Varian replied.

“That’s wonderful, really I’m touched, but…” Hugo coughs, faintly tasting a coppery tang as something wet hit the inside of his mouth. Had she punctured a lung too? “you need to go.”

“ _No._ ” Varian said, commanding more authority than Hugo thought the boy could possess. He could swear that Varian’s silhouette was trembling, despite himself. “I figured it out. Ulla wants the power she gave me back. But she has to kill me herself to get it, I think.”

“So you’re just going to give yourself up? Varian—” he coughs again, and Varian stiffens.

“Not quite…” Varian says. Faintly Hugo realizes what Varian is getting at. The vampire has neglected his heritage for some time. It is easier not to tap into that deep, dark well of unnatural power when you know that it is always dry.

A single note of concern rises in Hugo’s throat, faint but pressing. The hunter tries to give voice to the worry, but it only comes out as a wet gurgle.

“In my defence, I am going to be very sorry if this kills you.”

For a moment, it feels like nothing. Then the sharp pain cuts through him, sparking his deadening nerves with searing electricity. His mind on instinct wants to flail against the teeth sinking into him. The muscles in his neck pull themselves taut against what remains of Varian’s fangs, cut in jagged

Varian is pulling on more than just sinew and vein. A vital thread is unravelling; strands fraying out as Hugo devotes his remaining fortitude to keeping grip on whatever still ties him to this plane.

An instant later, his protest is silenced. Warmth floods through his body, from his neck to his chest, down both his arms and legs. It centers low in his belly, and every nerve in his body tingles with sudden, pleasant sensation. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

What might be a moment, or a minute later, Hugo realizes that Varian has released him. The hunter’s eyes flutter open weakly. The world is cloudy and muffled. His eyelids drift back down, threatening to enclose him in darkness as his remaining senses fall into slumber. He feels, rather than hears the vibration of Varian’s words, and then a guttural shriek as something mutedly flashes where Varian was standing.

From behind a wall of glassy indifference, Hugo thinks that he should do something about the wound.

He is alone now. It as much as he can tell, before the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision envelopes him.

* * *

From the blackness, something wrenches Hugo back to the waking world, heavy and demanding. It tugs on his consciousness, holding him fast. There remains a single connecting string within him, one that has now uncomfortably knotted itself around the soreness across his body.

As he wakens, he is met with all of the sensations of being quite reluctantly alive. The makeshift bandages are tight around his torso and limbs, squeezing against aching muscles. He would adjust them, if had something else to keep himself together. They bindings would need to be changed soon, if their dampness was any indication. His shoulders lay heavy against the…mattress, warm with exhaustion. One of them stings in rhythm with his heart. Trying to move was much like swimming through a mire. He reeks of dried blood and sweat. His thoughts are thick, heavy with a strange miasma.

Something nags at him in the fog clouding his thoughts; he is forgetting something critical. He had gone to the safehouse, stopped in his tracks by a vampire, and then dragged inside by—

_Varian!_

Guided by a single thought, Hugo musters himself to almost sitting upright—before careening back into the mattress after a wave of nausea rolls through him.

“Try again, but slowly this time.” a timid voice says, barely above a whisper. In the still air of the room the words barely hold their own weight, but in Hugo’s head they seem to carry something more, ringing again and again in his ears. It is clear and imposing over his thoughts. He does his best to comply, gradually lifting his torso off the bed, wincing with every new angle.

“That’s enough.” they say, and it echoes with finality, silencing the repetitive melody. It catches him almost fully upright, arms stretched out behind him as they press into the stiff mattress.

The room is threadbare; there is a bed, a modest window, and maybe a table. The details escape his notice. They are immaterial, receding from his mind as soon as they arrive like cobwebs swept underfoot.

In the corner farthest from him, a huddled figure is pressing itself against the wall, doing its best to sink into the backdrop.

“You made it.” Varian says. The acknowledgement is a relief that washes over Hugo, cooling the heat of his injuries.

In the waning light filtering through the shear curtains, Varian is _whole_. Where his skin was almost translucent, his flesh is not flush, but it is _full_. The rotten hue remains ever present, inundated with a pale, pulpy mass under papery skin. He can longer see the shadow-impression of the bones that make up Varian’s frame.

Something akin to a scream rumbles in the back of Hugo’s mind. It screeches in he distance, something beyond haze. There is a threat somewhere nearby, but Hugo cannot find its aim.

What matters more is that Varian is _frightened_. In the blurry, featureless room, Varian is the only thing he holds loyalty to.

“Varian, what _the fuck_ is going on?” Hugo asks. He is already too far away, trapped to a bed by his own foolish mortality. The hunter begins pushing himself off the cushioning.

“ _Stay._ ” Varian commands. Hugo seizes mid movement. “Sit back down.” He does. Released, Hugo finally breaths.

“It would be easiest if you stayed where you are.” Varian says. “I can hear it, your pulse. It is the loudest thing in this room, and I can’t smell anything other than _you._ It’s almost unbearable.”

The words that come out his mouth don’t feel like his own. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Varian’s form shifts. His hesitance evaporates in a moment—and in the same length of time, Varian retreats back to his corner, curling in on himself again.

“You are very much alive, that much was obvious, but I was waiting for you to wake up. I just needed to be sure.”

Hugo is unsure which he finds more distressing—that he caused Varian to worry, or that he finds such a thing so deeply concerning. Guilt bubbles, rising from his stomach to his throat. There is an apology coming, and on some level Hugo knows that it is the wrong one.

“I am sorry for worrying you,” Hugo bites back another word, clenching his jaw tightly. He grabs fistfuls of the the worn sheets that sit around his lap.

“Hugo?” Varian is looking right at him, apprehension made plain. Crimson irises He should just tell Varian what’s wrong, but his mouth seizes shut when he tries to form the words.

Instead, he offers a deflection. “It’s, it’s nothing for you to worry about. You were saying?”

Varian lets his shoulders fall back down, but his mouth remained tight with worry. He begins pushing himself off the floor, one unsteady limb at a time, until he is holding himself against the wall.

“Nothing. There isn’t really anything else to say I guess.” Varian says. “You’ll be safe here a while, probably a couple days—that should be enough time.”

“Enough time…Varian, you’re not going to leave me here alone are you? Varian, you _can’t_ , I need to—”

_Need to what? What am I begging for here?_

“ _You_ don’t need to do anything. You’ve, done plenty. More than you should have, by all rights.”

“Varian they are going to _kill_ you.”

“I’m already dead. Or did you forget that, hunter?”

He hadn't forgotten--he hadn't. Varian was dangerous (only when he wanted to be). Varian was a means to an end (but what was the ending?). Varian was different (but only so far as he believed).

“You don’t drink—”

“You’re right, I don’t, or at least didn’t until two days ago. Never a human being at least. I wasn’t able, was never allowed to. But I can’t survive on water alone. You know that.”

Varian isn't looking at him, and Hugo's chest hurts. The vampire's attention has turned to window. His boot brushes against a small pile of punctured rats, bodies stiff with decay, as he drags himself to the window, pulling himself along the wall.

Varian's knuckles are white as they grip the window frame. Hugo feels the frustration in kind, overriding his own discontent. Varian is upset, and he is to blame.

Varian is the one to break the silence. He opens the window in one quick motion. “You’re awake now, and I’m going to make sure you stay that way.”

And Varian is gone, out through the window without even sparing a glance at Hugo.

Varian is gone, and the only clue Hugo has is that Varian is heading to his likely demise, in an effort to save _him,_ nevermind everything else.

Hugo can feel the growing distance between them, as Varian races headlong into self-sacrifice. His chest is tight, ribs squeezing his lungs with each breath as Varian gets farther away. It is cruel punishment, for something that the hunter can't quite place.

Dark, inverted spots sprout across his vision. They are few, and then they are many, innumerable as they cover his sight like ink. It _hurts,_ and his pulse echoes in his head, louder and louder until he can't hear anything else. Why did Varian leave him behind?

His breath hitches on the thought. It is almost intolerable.

All at once, the phantom miasma holding him is lifted. He sucks in a breath, and the air scorches his throat like swallowing hot coals. It burns against the guilt in the pit of his stomach until his thoughts are his own again.

It is a mercy that Varian hadn't killed him outright. Hugo should be terrified, angry even. He has come to face the exact scenario he was warned against. Mistaking mercy for compassion. And for what?

What meaning did mercy from something, someone, that could sever him from this life at a moment’s notice, have? From someone, held hostage by their own nature?

He was beholden to no one, no longer enthralled by a strange haze poisoning his judgement. He could leave now, if he wanted to. Find Donella. Let Ulla and the coven settle matters on its own terms. If all they wanted was Varian, then they would slink back into whatever hole they had crawled out of on their own. Surely even Ulla wasn’t worth him dying over, especially word of his efforts and what he had learned never made it back to Donella.

If luck would have it, the hunter accompanying Varian would be forgotten under the crushing void of having endless time at your disposal.

Hugo would left to return to his primary occupation. Chasing wisps of vampire activity for Donella. Alone. Varian would be nothing more than memory, a strange creature who didn't have the sensibility to behave like he should, like something Hugo should be afraid of. One that Hugo had found common ground with, and had gone to great lengths to defend, in spite of his upbringing.

In the empty room he was free, only held back by his injuries. So why did he feel like he was still bound to something other than himself and Donella?

The answer lay with Varian, and Hugo had let him run out the window.

_Drama queen._

Hiding at the foot of the bed was a heavy oak chest. It contained his things, as well as bundle of gauze and disinfectant. He was the one who put them there, he remembered now. Varian had managed to deduce, or more likely just guessed which room was Hugo’s.

Pulling back the sagging bandages around his torso, his flesh was more intact than his memory warranted. Had Varian healed him? Was that even possible? He was grateful not find his innards spilling out in front of him.

Varian was moving farther away with every passing moment, but Hugo knew better than to try to rush tending to his wounds. He dressed the open sores to the best of his ability, being careful with his anointment of the disinfectant as he hissed at its sting.

The armour for his chest and his arms had been torn asunder, and what remained of it sat in a blood-soaked pile on the floor by the chest. That wouldn’t have helped with the scene Varian found so overwhelming.

There was a smaller leather carapace, one that he had mostly grown out of, in a compartment in the floor under the bed. He had left it there just in case, though he hadn’t imagined a scenario quite like this. A twinge of embarrassment pricked at him as he pulled it out; it still had his old emblem emblazoned across the chest, from when he thought having that kind of identifiable sign made him _cool._

He swilled the remaining disinfectant over the design, largely removing it save for a faint outline. It would be good enough, he decided after chastising himself a moment for wasting the time on trying to save some of his pride.

_Now isn’t the time, for once._

Ulla fortunately hadn’t bothered to take his weapons before Varian had dragged him inside. He assembled the rest of his things with practiced ease and made his way downstairs, ignoring the creaking of the wood under his feet.

His mark on the door was still there, but it is faded, a brown coppery stain against the wood, broken by scratch marks. He was lucky it was effective at all, as shoddy as it was.

From the doorway he can see that the snowfall has covered most signs of the skirmish—but it is not enough to hide the motes of scarlet just under the surface. Even in the cold, there lingered a faint scent of copper and rot.

 _Last chance to change your mind._ He’s already prepared either way, should he decide differently. It would be easy to turn around, shirk it all off. They would find Ulla again. More powerful than before but given how strong she was in state weakened by Varian, that didn’t seem to really matter.

 _The house had been abandoned since Ulla’s visit. Nothing remained of the family. So sad! But I did find these notes and some clues. She went in the direction of buck-fuck nowhere. Looks like we’re back to square one, Don!_ He liked to think that Donella would never know otherwise, but the woman always had a way of seeing past his ruses. As much as it might irritate her, she would get over it in time.

Another thought still nagged at him: _There’s no coming back from this. You know that. The rabbit hole only goes deeper from here on out._ As if the idyllic life of a monster hunter was ever simple.

_Wouldn’t have it any other way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here you are! You made it through the blood, the gore, Varian being the worst vampire ever, _and_ the inconsistent narration! Congrats. I offer you this:
> 
> Hugo: *is a monster hunter*  
> Varian: *is a vampire*  
> Hugo: https://www.tiktok.com/@oneshortofapenny/video/6842252974912277766
> 
> Now I tell you that this was originally a larger narrative, restructured to fit into a compressed zine format. Because once I started world-building, I simply couldn't stop, and quickly found myself writing a series of vignettes rather than a condensed one-shot, before someone very sensibly talked me down from it.
> 
> https://professoractualitywrites.tumblr.com/


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is still Halloween in my heart. In spirit.
> 
> Have a tiny update! :3

The house outside the room was in a sorrier state than he had expected. The old staircase leading up the loft was covered in blood. His blood, soaked into the aging wood steps as a ruddy stain. Getting it out now was a forgone conclusion. He would take the earful later, whenever someone from the guild chose to use this shelter next.

At least it wasn't entrails, this time.

The percussion of his old equipment rattled loudly in his ears in the silence of the house. He used to the quiet normally—their various hideouts were rarely stocked with visitors—but the chill coming in from the open doorway just ahead of him made the atmosphere eerie. 

Whatever sigil he had tried to cast on the door was made ineligible with numerous but shallow scratch marks. They scraped a thin layer off the wood leaving the softer grain exposed. He almost didn't bother shutting the door behind him on his way out, but thought better of it when he remembered the last tongue lashing he had gotten for not treating the last place with more care.

The fight had created a small pit in the snow. It was already gradually being filled in by the snowfall and the leaning of the surrounding snow banks. He could see few other traces across the growing blanket of snow.

That also meant that there weren't any apparent clues as to the direction Varian had left in. Circling back around the house, he could see a trail that started some distance away from the building, but it was already disappearing. It would run into nothing quickly; probably before he found Varian as he couldn't see the vampire anywhere on the horizon.

Near his foot there is a strange faint blue glow, muted by snow, that dies as soon as he turns to look at it. Another pulse of that same colour appears just ahead, and the pattern continues in a straight line, each mote waning and waxing farther away from him. Hugo brushes some of the snow near him with his foot. It comes away wetter than expected, sliding off his boot, leaving a melted residue.

It is a familiar sight. Glossy black rock, with a glassy texture. Just underneath the veneer he can see spidery veins that alight with dark azure as another pulse runs through them. Bending down, he raps his knuckles against the warm, smooth surface and is rewarded with the keening sound that he's heard from the rocks before. The touch did not spark another light show, to his disappointment.

They have found these rocks forming strange paths all over the kingdom, but never with any clear destination, and never around occupied settlements. The rocks were nearly indestructible—a colleague managed to find a severed shard once—but none of their tests had ever determined an obvious weakness. The common folk often spoke of them as stiff tendrils of the fabled spirit of the moon, though he put little faith in such tales.

Following the echo of their rhythm, he could see the path stretching away from him toward Corona proper. He was sure it hadn't been here when he arrived. He hadn't the opportunity to check the perimeter when they arrived, but it seemed like too much a coincidence that he would find it winding away from the window Varian had left through. It almost seemed like their presence had awakened it from indifferent dormancy before falling asleep again. 

He would follow it for as far as it would take him, excavating it from under the snow as he needed. There was little other choice, as much as it bothered him to admit that he had been left with so few options.

* * *

Varian is on the move, swifter than he had realized his legs could ever carry him. In such open space, there is nothing holding him back—and the thought is both intimidating and exhilarating. He doesn't remember the last time he was outside. But there is an unsteady undercurrent to the newfound freedom.

He is surrounded on all sides by novel sensations. Behind him, Hugo's living presence wanes the farther ahead he races. There are fickers all around of life—heartbeats burrowing under the snow, minuscule breaths in the trees, cold gusts howling in his ears, an unfamiliar stiffening in his furthest extremities—and between all of them, straight ahead is small void. It is the polar opposite of the vivid human presences he has encountered with his father and Hugo. It is noted most by it's absence of...anything else.

Varian can only assume it is Ulla, and wonders why he hadn't noticed her tailing behind them earlier. It seems so conspicuous now—but he supposes he had been distracted by the prospect Hugo had presented. 

Inside of one encounter he had gone from being bait to...whatever it was he was doing now. Rushing headlong into grave danger, almost certainly. Alone.

Something wicked flashes across his mind. Spurts of human blood across pale skin, the scent of injury and open vein between flurries of snow.

It is for the best that he does this alone. Which is why when he feels the prick of the something behind him moving, he is almost annoyed. He had been hoping Hugo would stay put or retreat, especially after nearly meeting his end. 

Varian suddenly feels the sting of foolishness. Of course Hugo would follow—his life was based around fighting through this kind of peril. What kind of hunter would he be if backed out now, losing the trail he had spent who knows how long tracking?

He idly wonders if his display of strength against her weakened the threat that Ulla poses. She had retreated in the wake of his attack to lick her wounds. Which led to his current predicament, chasing down the monster that wanted him dead. 

Either he would come to her, or she would find him again.

The alchemist had at least brought his satchel with him. He would have a small arsenal of chemical bombs of sorts with him. Doubt crept in, tasting of vinegar on his tongue. They wouldn't do much against the sheer strength and determination Ulla seemed to posses, but it was a small reassurance that soothed his fraying nerves.

* * *

Pain gnaws at her as she drags her distended limb beside her through the snow. Her alabaster skin has been completely flayed from her shoulder down, sparing only her hand. Putrid flesh, soaked in a black ichor drips into the snow behind her as the hot black pools fizzle in the snow. It has been a long time since she has seen the fluid run clear.

It has also been a good while since she had inhabited this particular abode. Almost two decades now, she reckons, though it's hard to discern when the years seem so fleeting.

Varian's attack surprised her. He fought her, his predecessor, with the reckless abandon of one unused to combat or bloody frenzy. And likely his first time feeding as well, if his blood red irises were anything to go by. Had that man—Quriin, came a name—really sheltered him so harshly all these years? She supposed that was partly her fault, for letting him leave with Varian all those years ago.

Her patience at least had paid off. He was now coming to her, likely confused in his newfound freedom and ability. 

The young vampire would not catch her off guard again. His human companion, if he had any sense, would leave 

She had left a long rotten trail behind her over the last day as she bled openly. So long as he had his wits about him, he would come across in less than a day's travel.

By that same measure, there was the issue of the black rocks. She was far out from any living, breathing presence, and the toxic sludge deluge from her wounds would let that entity track her as well. Here, so exposed in open tundra, she was without any of her usual protections.

As a foggily familiar set of buildings peaks over the horizon, she knew she was nearing her destination. 

'Dresit' had been the name of this little hamlet, she was sure. It stood covered in wintery neglect, wood left to rot as windows cracked in their frames. She could sense no potential food sources nearby. A ghost town, then. 

That would make things more difficult, but she could work with it. She paid little heed to the long abandoned homes as she trudged through the unplowed pathways. There was scant little to reminisce over here for her.

The bleeding had slowed now as her injuries slowly sealed themselves with concentrated effort. She would need to sleep for a while to truly heal it, but this would do for now.

With the dreary hamlet behind her, the cottage would not be far off. The timing is good. She's not sure how much more she can tolerate the hiss of the elements against her raw flesh. 

There it is now. A modest home, surrounded by decrepit human sentiments—an untended garden decaying under the snow, a rusted farm tool, a jagged picket fence. The bramble poked menacingly around the doorway. 

The inside fared only modestly better, glazed in a thin layer of dust. What the moths had left of the meagre carpet lining the central hallway reeked of mold. It gave a wet squelch under her foot as she walked over it. 

Wrinkling her nose at the ordour, she flicked her untarnished hand to remove the offending article from her presence. It barely fluttered. With a low growl, she kicked it aside, making a mental note to let it burn outside later.

The door to the basement had been spared from the conditions of the rest of the house—a lingering after effect of magick. Which meant that everything contained within it would be similarly pristine. Including the same instruments she had used to revive Varian before turning him.

Good.


End file.
